


World Parlor

by SomeBratInAMask, writingandchocolatemilk



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-02-16
Packaged: 2018-03-13 05:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3368747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeBratInAMask/pseuds/SomeBratInAMask, https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingandchocolatemilk/pseuds/writingandchocolatemilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tino runs a <i>highly professional</i> tattoo parlor, where all his highly professional professionals offer only the most-cutting edge talents for tattoos, piercings, and scarification. Tino is also dating a rather classy accountant, Berwald, who may not know what he is getting into when he asks to visit this crazy coterie Tino calls a family.</p><p>The family portrait features:<br/>Lovino, a renowned scarrer with a thing for tan guys and green eyes<br/>Tonio, a delivery-turned-errand boy just too eager to please<br/>Feliciano, a flirtatious tattooist<br/>Ivan, a creepy piercer who mostly earns his paycheck by irritating the receptionist<br/>Alfred, the receptionist with frat boy humor and virgin skin<br/>And Tino, who owns the parlor and still isn't paid nearly enough for any of this</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Moons, Blue Moons, and Infected Moons

**Author's Note:**

> Beth (writingandchocolatemilk) and I are collaborating to bring you an AU with as many antics as ships - and believe you me, there will be plenty of both. Upcoming ships aside from SuFin include RusAme, Spamano, and very likely GerIta. So far, little is set in stone, but we've got enough to material to work with. The way the story is set up, basically each chapter will be a one-shot within the same universe and with loose continuity. 
> 
> If school goes easier on me than it has been since the start of second semester, then there might even be a plot. For now, though, just consider this to be something light to cleanse the pallet from whatever heavy reading you've been torturing yourself with.
> 
> How we write:  
> Both of us will shoot out ideas together, occasionally writing entire scenes, and then I'll take whatever we've created and flesh the narrative out or tinker with the dialogue, whatever it is needed to be presentable. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy whatever craziness we throw into this potluck universe.

From somewhere in the ceiling, a man was singing throatily in Italian as silverware hit porcelain plates and conversations uncoiled in murmurs from private, wine-colored booths. Tino sipped his beer, glancing around the candlelit room at paintings of Venice on the walls and intricate wine racks. He looked across at Berwald and his clear glass of water, lemon plucked off the rim and discarded on the crisp cloth napkin.

Perhaps Tino should have ordered something more sophisticated, more complementary to the atmosphere. A white wine, or even champagne. He skewered a piece of balsamic-drenched lettuce on his fork.

Berwald cleared his throat.

“Hm?” hummed Tino, chewing.

“I was wondering,” Berwald said slowly. His deep, sluggish voice and stoic inflection reminded Tino of grandfather clocks and antique gift shops, “what you do for a living.”

“Oh!” Tino sounded, straightening his back. “Nothing quite as lucrative as an accountant, I sure you,” he joked.

“That’s alright. I don’t care for money.” Berwald bit on an oil-slicked breadstick.

“Funny, I never thought I’d hear that from an accountant,” Tino teased.

Berwald quietly swallowed. “I suppose. Still, would you mind telling me what you work as?”

Tino resisted biting his lip. Berwald shouldn’t find it weird, so long as Tino didn’t make it weird. “I run a tattoo parlor, but well, it also does piercings and scarification.” Defensively, he added, “A lot of very talented specialists work under me, as independent contractors. We’re all professionals.”

Berwald nodded, eyebrows drawn together slightly. “That’s interesting,” he complimented, eyes fixed on Tino’s drink. He quickly refocused on Tino’s face. “I mean, must be fun. Not much artistry at a bank, so I don’t really understand the liberal arts types. It’s different,” concluded Berwald. “In a good way.”

Tino snorted, chasing a cherry tomato around his plate. “Yeah, you could say that. The man who delivers our needles is in a relationship with my scarrer, so he does some odd errands here and there, livens up the place and entertains the staff whenever they’re breaking. He’s a nice guy: sweet, a little goofy, a little terrified of my piercer. My piercer, meanwhile, wants to put holes in my receptionist. But, well, I think we all get along. It’s a family, like anyone else’s.”

Berwald nodded again, faster, more nervous, and Tino could feel his confidence falter. “You mentioned, uh, scarring?”

“Oh, right. It’s not nearly as terrifying as it sounds, I promise,” Tino comforted. It might be more terrifying than it sounded.

“What do you do?” Berwald asked, finishing off his breadstick.

Tino pursed his lips, thinking carefully. “It’s like tattooing. With knives.”

Berwald’s chewing slowed. He grunted in reply

“Plenty of people prefer it to tattooing. It’s less expensive, and you don’t ever have to re-ink,” Tino supported.

Berwald swallowed heavily. “No. I suppose you wouldn’t.”

Their waitress arrived at their table, two stealing platters in each manicured hand. She leaned forward, black hair slinking over her shoulder as Tino moved his salad and Berwald pushed aside the breadbasket for her. “Mm, smells delicious,” Tino exclaimed, smiling a Thank You at her.

“I hope it tastes even better!” she grinned back, clasping her hands. “Anything else?”

Tino tapped the rim of his glass. “For future reference, do you guys do refills on beer?”

“If you pay for them!” she chirped.

Tino grimaced. It was smooth beer.

 

* * *

 

It was a new moon, black expanse of sky and scatter of stars blinking sparsely between gaps of streetlights. Tino slumped against Berwald’s arm as they walked to his car. _“Blue moon,”_ Tino crooned _. “You saw me standing alone, without a dream in my heart.”_

Berwald frowned. “It’s not a blue moon tonight. It’s new.”

Tino giggled, finding Berwald’s big hand and holding it. _“Without a love of my own,”_ he continued. His ears felt warm, his head dizzy, as if submerged under a hot bath flooded in soap bubbles. “A customer came in once, asking for a blue moon tattoo. We originally sent him to Michelle, who does very clean, simple art. But he got nervous having it done by a girl, because he wanted the tattoo on his butt —I imagine for some kind of pun, though _I_ never asked. So, we redirected him to Feliciano, our male tattooist, but Feli always persuades his customers to opt for fancier, more time-consuming tattoos. What became a butt tattoo of a moon soon became a genital tattoo of — get this — _a tiger."_

“Is that so,” Berwald mumbled, pressing a button on his keys and unlocking the car.

Tino veered to the passenger’s side and teetered, falling against the bordering truck. “Oops,” he chuckled, pushing himself off the door. Berwald rounded the car, pressing a hand to Tino’s lower back.

“Are you alright?” he asked, scrutinizing Tino. “Your cheeks are looking red.”

Tino grinned and spun around. He stood on his toes, swaying back and forth. “It’s because I’m with you,” he flirted, tapping Berwald’s nose.

Berwald kept his palm on Tino’s back as he shuffled forward, opening Tino’s door. Berwald squeezed Tino’s waist, ushering him to sit. “You all in?” Berwald checked.

Tino rolled his head toward Berwald. “Yup,” he confirmed, popping his ‘p.’

“Good.” Berwald swung the door shut. After a couple seconds, he was opening his own door and sliding in behind the wheel. He twisted his key in the ignition, engine awakening with a quiet purr.

“Speaking of purring,” Tino began, nestling into the leather, “the tiger had its mouth open, so it looked like it was about to bite the head of the customer’s penis.”

Berwald made a choking noise, shoe slamming down on the gas and jerking the car forward before he grabbed madly for the shift. Tino’s head knocked against the seat, rattling his brain. Berwald apologized, pulling out of the parking space.

“Oh yeah, I forgot to mention — most genital tattoos are right above the actual genitals. Feli somehow managed to convince this man into inking along his shaft. Now, the tattoo itself was absolutely _gorgeous,”_ Tino emphasized, lips ovaling over the _gor_ like he was mouthing a ringpop. “Vibrant colors, piercing eyes, lifelike fur — Feli’s specialty is coloring and animals, so this was a top-notch piece. The customer requested some narcotics, but we’re very strict about blood-thinners and made sure he didn’t take anything. His screaming could be heard from the lobby. We had to close shop and everything on the first day, just to prevent any first-timers from getting the wrong idea. All of our staff members are extremely gentle.

“It took a couple days, because we had to segment the time under the needle to prevent any bad reactions. I almost wish he had passed out, just to stop all the crying — that was back when I didn’t have a receptionist and had to stay at the store from opening to closing time.”

“That’s terrible,” Berwald remarked. They were on the road now, a car beside them blasting rap music loud enough to be heard through the raised windows. Tino wondered if Berwald ever played the radio while he drove.

“Oh, most definitely. Never recommend it,” Tino agreed. “But someone had to man the desk,” he sighed.

Berwald glanced at him. “I meant,” he started, then looked back to the road. “Nevermind.”

Tino nodded. “Yes, hold comments till the end please.”

Berwald’s eyebrow rose. “You’re not finished?”

Tino wriggled beneath his seatbelt, reaching to stroke Berwald’s brow. He missed, finger stabbing Berwald in the eye as he jolted back, eyelid scrunched and watering. “I’m so sorry!” Tino gasped.

“It’s fine.” Berwald rubbed under his glasses, eye red when he dropped his hand to the wheel.

“I was trying to caress you,” Tino informed.

Berwald ducked his head, ears rouging. “Your story?” he reminded.

“Right,” Tino said dutifully. “We went through the proper aftercare with him, telling him to return to the shop after a week to touch base and make sure everything was healing smoothly. He returns after a week, but Feli is on sick leave and so I meet with him instead. (I do both piercings and tattoos, though I am master of neither.) We go into Feli’s office, which at the time was shared by Michelle before we had the expansion. I sit down, he drops his pants, and _the smell,_ Berwald, _oh God.”_ Tino sticks out his tongue in disgust. “It was like a hamster had crawled up his foreskin and _died.”_

Berwald wrinkled his nose. Tino wagged his finger at him. “Exactly. That face right there, exactly how I felt. I wanted to _barf._ I didn’t, though, because that’s not professional. Instead, I had him lay down the cot for examination. Berwald, I was not at all prepared for this sight:

“Firstly, his penis was _swollen red._ It was like pigs in a blanket, but with three weiners instead of one. Then the lovely coloring Feli did — gone,” Tino described, waving his hand. “Those bright orange and black stripes were inflamed _beyond belief._ I have never since seen such inflammation on any tattoo. Usually, it just appears as if the tattoo has a red aura. This guy’s tiger looked like a battle-bloodied warrior,” said Tino, staring gravely at Berwald until he tore his eyes from the windshield and met Tino’s gaze.

“It was infected?” Berwald offered when Tino seemed to be expecting a response.

Tino’s intensity lessened, satisfied with the question, and returned to watching the road with Berwald. The headlights shot yellow beams onto the dark pavement, neverending stretches of light that guided them down a straight path. Viewed distantly, the road seemed to end as a tiny black dot, an oncoming tunnel that just never came. “Listen, I don’t know _what_ he did to infect his genitals that badly, if he stuck his dick into a vat of sewage or what, but there were blisters and odors that could only be described as unholy.”

Berwald swallowed dryly. “Are infections — _common_ in your line of work?”

Tino mulled over the question. It wasn’t a flattering question, he almost told Berwald that it wasn’t flattering, but he decided he had brought that upon himself. Now he felt silly, blabbering about bad experiences from a job he already knew was seen as crude. He was made aware of his warm ears and cheeks, his mind full of cotton balls, and how foolish he got when buzzed. He smiled assuringly. “No, of course not,” he promised. “That was such a rare instance. We’re all very professional.”

Berwald grunted. “Perhaps,” he said hesitantly, “I could visit your shop some time. You seem rather fond of your job, more than I am of mine. It would be… interesting. To see what you enjoy.”

Tino turned his head toward Berwald, his mouth parting in surprise. He blinked twice, then looked away, lips curving upward. “That would be a great second date. I’m looking forward to it already,” he accepted.

 


	2. The Daring Adventures of Alfred, The Undercover Alien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning of Alfred's first day working at World Parlor.

World Parlor was a hole in the wall in the L.A. area, which upon entering seemed to expand in what could only be reminiscent of Mary Poppins’ tote bag. There were seven rooms Alfred had toured this morning on his first day as the receptionist, all decently-sized and occupied individually by each artist, as well as a fairly spacious storage closet. Tino had introduced him to all two of the artists who arrived before shop opened. (There had been Michelle, a woman with bows in her long, deep brown hair and an accent Alfred couldn’t place; and Ivan, who smiled closed-lipped and wriggled his fingers how an eight-year old girl might, before returning to his book.)

The lobby, which Alfred guessed was to be his kingdom of reign, had clean gray linoleum floors which caught the gleam of the ceiling lights, reminding Alfred of sterile hospitals. The walls, however, were plastered in photographs of intricate scars on flesh and laminated tattoo sketches. Spinning display cases dotted the waiting room, showcasing various body jewelries. They shined behind glass, metallic and sharp, like minuscule weaponry; ordnance for ants.

Alfred bobbed his head to the hushed rock music of the speakers, scrolling through Google Images on the front desk computer. He spun idly on the stool, knocking his legs back and forth as he sifted. He right-clicked and Set As Desktop Wallpaper, minimizing the window to check the monitor. Chris Evans in full Captain America costume dominated between icons and shortcuts. Alfred grinned, satisfied.

Heavy footsteps stomped down the hall. Alfred glanced up at Ivan, who was more intimidating when at full height and not impersonating that Olsen twin from _Full House._ “Good morning,” Ivan greeted, standing across Alfred at the desk, back to the main entrance.

Alfred pressed the Home button on the toolbar. “Back at ya’,” he replied.

“So tell me, _Alfred,_ how did a kid like _you,_ land a job _here,_ with skin like _that?”_ The question came out snidely, like a challenge, as Ivan placed his thick palms on the counter and scrutinized the naked flesh of Alfred’s arms. His skin was the color of actors in beer commercials, sprawled along the beach with slender women posing under their arms. He had no piercings, no tattoos, no modifications of any kind. His only decor was the black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

Alfred imagined Ivan and him in some high school movie, where Alfred was kicked out of his jock buddies’ clique and had to sit at the social reject table in the cafeteria. Ivan was the creepy emo kid who decided poor, heroic Alfred had fallen too far from propriety to even take refuge with his band of over-pierced loser friends. His face would be the icon of cruelty for a generation of movie-goers.

“I had to defeat your boss’ seven evil exes,” Alfred answered. He opened a tab and searched _Tetris,_ to see if Ivan was going to be this job’s token snitch.

Alfred peaked at Ivan, whose eyebrows were raised, either at Tetris or Scott Pilgrim. Alfred clicked on a link and the page loaded to a small black box that turned into an ad he could skip in ten seconds. After five, Ivan said, “I could give you your first piercing.”

“Sorry, I’m the ‘before’ picture. I’m here to remind people that it’s never too late to not ruin their lives.”

Ivan cocked his head, amused smile playing on his lips. “Why would a guy who thinks piercings ruin lives work at a tattoo shop?”

Alfred hit _Skip_ and immediately paused the game. He looked around the room furtively, then tilted his head toward Ivan and stared at him crucially. “Can you keep a secret?” he asked.

Ivan ducked closer. “Only if it’s not interesting,” he mused.

Alfred smirked. In a stage-whisper barely quieter than his earlier volume, “I'm not actually a receptionist. I'm a spy working undercover for the inter-planetary government. There is substantial evidence that this Terrain tattoo parlor is harboring the man responsible for the death of Swarvoskaw the Fiftieth: Emperor of Galaxy 3627-22.”

Ivan drummed his fingers. The bell tied to the door-hinge jingled. “We have an issue then, space-scum. I am going to have to kill you, like the rest of your —”

Someone cleared their throat behind Ivan, and Alfred looked around him at the lady who had entered. Her arms were crossed and her hair dyed three different colors. Alfred jerked his chin toward her, murmuring, “That’s the man. Step back, Earthling.” Alfred whipped his focus to the woman, grinning charismatically with all his teeth bared. “Welcome! How would you liked to be tortured and mutated today?”

Ivan laughed, covering his mouth with a hand and coughing weakly when the customer glared at the two of them. Ivan pushed himself off the counter. “Goodbye for now, space-scum,” he said, taking off again down the hall.


End file.
